Jackson’s body vibrated with laughter, and she melted into him, grateful for the break in tension. “With one thrust, I’d snap her in half.”
They laughed.
“McGraw was right. We’re going to ruin these poor old people.” She handed him the wallpaper scorer. “Here—score, mix, soak, strip, clean.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon “de-elderizing” the place. Their neighborhood turned into a multiplying herd of onlookers roaming past their house, eager to catch a glimpse of the mysterious young couple who seemed to be gutting their entire place.
“Knock, knock,” an unfamiliar male voice sounded through the screen door.
Jackson climbed down the ladder while Jillian tied the last trash bag of wallpaper scraps.
“Hey, not trying to bother ya. I’m Stan Renner.”
“Hi, Stan. I’m Jackson Knight and Jillian is around the corner.”
“Be right there,” she called.
“No hurry. I live up the street, the only one with the four-car garage.”
“Did you stop by to see if we wanted to trade places?” Jackson smiled.
“What? Oh … no, no. My garage is my man cave. It’s temperature-controlled, finished floor, heated walls. Basically it’s the only thing that keeps me sane when my wife goes off on her rants about … well, everything. No, I’m just stopping cuz I’m the association president—nobody else wanted the job—but that’s neither here nor there. I think it’s great the way you’re updating the place, but you might not be aware of the fact that the garbage doesn’t come until Wednesday. If it were only a couple of trash bags, I’d tell ya to just keep them in your garage until trash day. But you’ve got a real mountain out at the end of your driveway, and I just don’t think you can leave that sitting there until Wednesday. I’m not trying to be a bad guy, but—”
“Hey, Stan …” Jillian enjoyed Stan’s incessant rambling too much to interrupt, but she also loved her brother and felt the need to save him from President Stan. “I’m Jillian. How lovely to meet you.”
Stan smoothed his hands over his salt and pepper hair that looked like it had once been curly, but suffered from the thinning and slow physical deterioration of time.
“Hi … uh … I’m Stan … Stan Renner.” He fell hard and quick, like most of Jillian’s victims.
His introduction was either naturally James Bond or simply a case of nerves. “I apologize for the heap of garbage in our driveway.” Jillian flipped her hair back over her shoulder, in case Stan wasn’t working with twenty-twenty.
As if on cue, those old-man eyes slipped to her breasts that were enjoying yet another day of freedom from the confines of a bra. “Ya know what? I’m just so tickled that you two are such diligent workers, which is hard to find in this day and age, that I don’t see any reason why I can’t bring down my pickup and get this hauled off for you.”
“Oh really?” Jillian proved to Jackson that he wasn’t the only one who could pour the honey slow and sweet. “That would be amazing! Make sure you check with me when you’re done. I was just getting ready to throw a batch of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.”
Stan backed out the door. “Well, young lady, I might just take you up on that. The only thing the missus does anymore is sit around watching Netflix on her computer all day. I think I’ve forgotten what a woman’s sweet treats taste like.” Stan waved then walked his tall, bony body back up the street—hands gesturing every which way, lips moving like he was talking to someone, but no one else was around.
“Let’s just be clear on this. First, it’s a little disturbing that Stan can’t remember the taste of a ‘woman’s sweet treats.’ But what’s even crazier is the fact that we have beer, half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and three brown bananas, yet somehow you’re going to wave your magic wand and make homemade chocolate chip cookies appear in our oven?”
Jillian bit the edge of her thumbnail. “Yeah, I should have said peanut butter cookies.”
*
Within two hours, Stan had hauled away all of their trash, swept their driveway, pulled weeds in their front yard, edged along their walk, and planted three hostas below their deck that he’d split from the north side of his own house. The Knights were dealing with a seventy-something who had a severe case of ADHD. Luckily for everyone involved, Stan enjoyed staying busy and they had no qualms with taking advantage of their elderly neighbor, who had the energy of someone half his age.
“Peanut butter, banana bread balls … and he ate them with a smile.”
Jillian fought to contain her own amusement. “Do you think it’s my blond hair?”
Jackson nudged her shoulder as they sipped their beers and watched the slow motion of life in Peaceful Woods from their front door step. “No, it’s your tits.”